Bleeders

by Anthony Bruno

  She opened the door and looked down at a square of natural light on the floor at the bottom, the one bright spot in a tunnel of gloom.

  “Hello,” she called out and took the first step. “Hello.”

  She touched the walls on both sides and walked down faster, fighting her claustrophobia. “Hello.” She ran to the bottom and stepped on the patch of light.

  “Trisha? Trisha? Is that you?” Her father’s voice. She turned the corner and immediately spotted him and her sister tied to chairs side-by-side.

  “Trisha?” Cindy’s voice was shaky. “Trisha?”

  Strips of silver-gray duct tape encircled their heads and covered their eyes. They looked like prisoners of war. The seams of a door on the far side of the room were also taped. Trisha could smell gas, faint but definitely present.

  “Nice of you to join us.”

  Trisha wheeled around and saw Lassiter sitting cross-legged on the bed. She froze. He was her worst nightmare come true. He wore black slacks and a white dress shirt, tails out, cuffs unbuttoned. They were dressed almost identically. An ax was balanced on his lap. He twiddled something bright green between his fingers—a plastic cigarette lighter.

  “Trisha, get out of here,” her father said. “Save yourself.”

  The raw emotion in his voice scared her. Her sister sobbed, but her face was dry, her tears trapped by the tape.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Trisha said. “We’re gonna figure this out. Cindy, try to stay calm.”

  Lassiter chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” she said.

  “You are. Special Agent Trisha McCleery, here to save the day.”

  “What do you want… Gene?” It embarrassed her to call him by his first name. After their date she’d actually imagined what making love with him would be like. The thought turned her stomach.

  He stared at her with a mocking smile.

  “He wants you!” Cindy wailed. “He wants to kill you.”

  Lassiter frowned. “You’re so blunt, Cindy. Where’s the romance? Where’s the love?”

  “Look at the shade,” Cindy said.

  The window shades on the right and left were drawn two-thirds of the way. The middle one was all the way down, showing the portrait. Trisha’s stomach sank when she realized that the young woman on the shade was supposed to be her.

  Lassiter gazed at her with pure desire, like a toddler staring at a bowl of ice cream, and this was more disturbing than if he’d come on like mad man.

  “What do you want?” she said, forcing herself to sound firm. “Let’s deal.”

  “I’m not a used car salesman, Trisha. I don’t ‘deal.’”

  “You want me? Fine. First you let them go.”

  “No, Trisha, don’t—” her father started to say.

  “Let me handle this, Dad.” She almost wished Lassiter had gagged them. She didn’t need her father’s input and the implied criticism that came with it. She needed to stay focused.

  “Since you insist on being so businesslike,” Lassiter said, “let me explain the situation. The real situation.” He pointed at the sealed door with the head of the ax. “If you haven’t guessed already, that’s where the gas leak is.” He held up the cigarette lighter. “I could make that happen. Easily.”

  Trisha noticed other disposable lighters on the night tables. There were also several spinal needles fixed with tubing draped over each table. He was prepared.

  “While I’m at it,” he continued, “let me point out some of the benefits of Mr. Ax here. If things don’t go the way I want, I have the option of using him on your sister and father.”

  Cindy tried to suppress a squeal of terror, but her trembling lips couldn’t contain it.

  “I won’t cut their heads off, of course. Impossible to do in a single blow as you probably know. That’s horror movie stuff. But what I can do is start some serious bleeding. Death won’t be instantaneous, but it’ll happen eventually.”

  Her father chewed his lip. She could tell he wanted to say something but was holding back. She turned away from him. No distractions, she told herself.

  “Did you know that before the guillotine was invented, the French performed decapitations with the condemned person standing up? The executioner used a broad sword. Henry the Eighth had Anne Boleyn executed that way. It was her choice actually. She didn’t want the ax and the chopping block. I saw that on TV.”

  “Yeah, I saw the same show,” she said, scanning the room, looking for possibilities.

  “Don’t waste your time,” he said. “I’ve really thought this through. I’ve gone over it in my mind many, many times.” He smiled with satisfaction.

  She took a closer look at the portrait on the shade and realized that the image looked as much like her mother as it did her. His fantasy started to become clear to her. He cherished his memories of killing her mother and he’d spent the last twenty years trying to recreate that experience. And who could be more like Natalie McCleery than the daughter who most resembled her?

  He twirled the ax slowly in his hands, his eyes fixed on her. “So did you come armed, Trisha? You must have.”

  She shook her head.

  “No gun? Really?”

  She nodded toward the sealed door. “Too risky.”

  “Knife? Pepper spray? Come on. You must have brought something.”

  She extended her arms and did a 360 to show she was empty-handed. Her blouse was too tight to conceal a weapon.

  “How about under your pants?”

  Wary of the reach of his ax, she took a step back and lifted her pant legs to show she had nothing strapped to her legs.

  “Unbutton your blouse.”

  Her father strained at the tape binding his forearms. “No! Don’t!”

  “Easy, Michael,” Lassiter said. “I’m not up to that yet.”

  She choked up, seeing her father’s desperate attempt to protect her. She unbuttoned her blouse and held it open, revealing a lace-trimmed white bra. She turned around, holding up the back so he could see that she had nothing on her.

  “You’re not wired?” he asked.

  “What you see is what you got.”

  His face turned grim, his voice a low growl. “Don’t lie to me, Trisha. Your mother never lied to me.”

  Her heart started to pound. She had to be strong, she told herself. She could be afraid, but she could not be weak.

  “Okay, you’re right,” she said, deciding to play her hand. “I am wearing a transmitter. The police can hear everything we’re saying. It’s tiny, though. Not easy to find. You could knock me out and search my body, but you probably wouldn’t find it.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’ll give you the transmitter if you give back the foundation money.”

  A look of amused astonishment transformed his face. “Nine-hundred and forty-seven million dollars for a piece of Radio Shack junk? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “No. I’m not. You want privacy, don’t you? You don’t want the cops listening in. Put the money back where it was and we’ll destroy the transmitter.”

  His mouth was a flat line. He was thinking about it.

  “Look,” she said, “you have three hostages and a cellar full of gas. What else do you need?”

  His eyes shifted from side to side. “All right,” he finally said, his cocky grin returning. “The transmitter for the code. It’s not like I had plans to spend that money.”

  “What code?”

  “I have a guy in Europe. All you need is his phone number and the code number. Just call him, give him the code, and tell him to transfer the money back to the foundation’s account at Lassiter Wealth Management. Easy as pie.”

  She was suspicious. “Really?”

  “Ask Richard Shugru
e. He did it once.”

  She was still suspicious.

  He exhaled his exasperation and snatched up a section of newspaper from the floor, then found a pen in one of the night tables. He scribbled something in the top margin of the front page and tore it off. “Here,” he said, waving the scrap of paper. “The code and the phone number.”

  She could see two series of numbers. “How do I know those are for real?”

  “I told you. I don’t want the money. I want you.”

  She froze, not sure how she should respond.

  “Nothing to say?” He was suddenly agitated. “Come on. I showed you mine. You show me yours.”

  “Show you what?”

  “The transmitter, the transmitter.”

  “It’s in my hair,” she said. “But I need two hands to get it out.”

  “All right, fine. Take it out.”

  She raised her hands to her head and felt through her hair until she found the tiny bead. It was attached to a strand with a tiny piece of surgical tape that had been dabbed with a black Sharpie to blend in with her hair color. She pinched her fingers around the transmitter, trying to slide it loose, but the tape held fast. She winced and kept pulling, yanking out several hairs before she finally dislodged it. She held it in her palm and showed him.

  He got off the bed to get a closer look. She backed away and extended her arm to keep as much distance as possible between them.

  “My, that is small,” he said.

  She closed her fist and held out her other hand. “The code.”

  He shook his head. “All things considered, I don’t think you’re the best caretaker for this information.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed to the ceiling with the ax head. “No phones in heaven. If you know what I mean.”

  She didn’t respond. Her gut was twisted with cramps.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s give it to your father. If everything turns out the way I want, he can take care of this.”

  Lassiter went to Trisha’s father and jammed the scrap of paper inside his shirt.

  Michael recoiled from Lassiter’s touch. “Trisha, don’t make deals with him. I don’t care about the money. I care about you. Get out of here! Run! Save yourself!”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She’d always assumed that the poor children of the world took up all the space in his heart, and that she—his disappointment—was crammed into a far corner.

  “Okay, now give me the transmitter,” Lassiter said.

  He held out his hand, but she wasn’t about to get that close. Instead she tossed it to the floor at his feet.

  He picked it up and examined it. “So small,” he murmured. He rubbed the hairs still attached between his fingers, mesmerized. “Well, enough of that,” he said and dropped the transmitter. He pounded it with the ax head, smashing it over and over as if he were working a pestle and mortar.

  He nudged the flattened lump of tape and metal with his shoe. “So,” he said. “We now have privacy. Take off your pants.”

  She met his gaze. “No.”

  “Don’t do it, Trisha!” Cindy blurted.

  “Shut up!” he screamed, then honed in on Trisha. “What do you mean no?”

  “I’m not taking off my pants. I’m not taking off anything.”

  He went to the night table on the far side of the bed, whipped the drawer open, pulled something out, and threw it on the comforter. A nightgown. White with a delicate pattern of small blue cornflowers.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “It’s what your mother was wearing. You don’t remember? The little blue flowers? I remember.”

  She felt a pang of guilt for not knowing that. She should have. She’d seen the crime-scene photos often enough.

  “Put it on,” he said. “Hurry up.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  He hoisted the ax, screamed like a banshee, and swung it sideways at her father. Her heart stopped, sure he was going to die, but it passed inches over his head. The swing was so hard it carried Lassiter in an arc and crashed into the wall behind him. He yanked it out, poised to take another swing as a rain of broken plaster tinkled to the floor.

  She stifled tears and looked him in the eye. “I am not my mother. Do you understand that?”

  He pointed at Cindy and yelled. “Look at your sister. Look at her! Sass me again and I’ll kill her. I swear to God.”

  Cindy’s lips trembled. Her salty tears had penetrated the glue on the tape and now flowed to her chin.

  Stay strong, Trisha kept telling herself. Stay strong. You have to.

  “If you let her go,” Trisha said, “I’ll take off my pants.”

  He bared his teeth, raised the ax, and swung.

  “No!” Trisha screamed.

  The blade sunk into the back of Cindy’s chair. She screamed, but there was no blood. The thick oak had taken the impact. Still she kept screaming, nonstop like a bagpipe.

  “Cindy, Cindy, listen to me,” Trisha said. “It’s okay. You weren’t hit. You’re okay.”

  “God Almighty!” Michael exploded. “What the hell do you want from us?”

  “Trisha knows what I want,” Lassiter said. “Don’t you, Trisha?”

  Michael cursed at him, but Lassiter didn’t seem to hear. His unblinking stare was on Trisha, the ax level in his hands. “I won’t miss next time,” he said.

  Trisha’s breathing was ragged. The lack of emotion in his voice terrified her. She imagined the room as a crime scene and visualized the photos that would be taken. Three dead bodies. Two with fatal lacerations to the neck, one slowly bled to death. She’d seen hundreds of similar crime scene photos. Innocent people who had gotten in the way and were dispatched with quickly so that the serial killer could take his time with the object of his lust.

  “Okay, okay, take it easy,” she said. She still had an ace to play. The transmitter attached to her pants. It was sensitive enough to pick up sound in the room even if she wasn’t wearing the them. All she had to do was give the code word, “Natalie,” and the SWAT guys would be there. But first she had to distract him, get him to move away from her father and Cindy, get him to put down the ax.

  She unbuttoned her slacks. “I’m doing it. I’m taking them off. See?”

  “Trisha, don’t,” her father cried.

  But as much as it wrenched her heart to hear his anguished pleas, she had to ignore him. She had to stay focused one hundred percent on Lassiter.

  She kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her slacks, keeping her eyes on Lassiter and the ax. She kicked the slacks aside and prayed that the second transmitter would pick up her voice. There was no reason why it shouldn’t.

  He stared at her body, jaws slack. “You look just like her,” he mumbled.

  “Put down the ax, Gene,” she said. “Come on. That’s not what you want.”

  His eyes turned sharp. “How do you know what I want?”

  “You want to use the needle. You want me to bleed. Just like my mother.”

  He pointed at the bed. “Get up there.”

  She shook her head, feeling exposed, goosebumps on her bare legs. “Put down the ax first.”

  He reached under a corner of the mattress and pulled out a long purple silk scarf. It was already tied to the footboard. He went around to all four corners and pulled out other scarves—hot pink, canary yellow, crimson. Each one was tied to the bed and long enough to bind a limb. He left the scarves draped over the mattress, waiting for her.

  Sweat soaked her blouse. She felt chills.

  “On the bed,” he said. He raised the ax over his head like a batter waiting for a pitch and glanced at Cindy.

 
Trisha shook her head, fighting tears. “Put it down.”

  “Get on the bed and tie your ankles.” He pointed to the scarves attached to the footboard. “Tie them tight. When you do that, I’ll put down the ax.”

  She clenched her fists to hide the shaking. She visualized a plan. Her goal was to distract him for the SWAT team. She was pretty sure he didn’t want to kill her with the ax—it wasn’t part of his fantasy. If she complied with his demand that she tie her own ankles, she felt he would discard the ax in order to proceed with his usual method. And that’s when she would use the code word. She imagined the SWAT cops rappelling down the rear of the building and crashing though the bay windows, shattered glass flying everywhere, guns trained on Lassiter, yelling and cursing as they ordered him to get down, get down, get down on the floor. They’d cuff him and shackle him and haul him out. She’d be sitting on the bed, surrounded by broken glass as she untied herself. She’d be exhausted but relieved. There was a way out of this, she told herself. If she didn’t panic.

  “What’re you waiting for?” he growled, the ax still over his head.

  She clung to the thought of eventual relief, like a candle in the dark. She sat on the edge of the bed, bringing her legs up and pivoting to face him standing over the footboard.

  “Now tie your ankles. Tight. No tricks.”

  She hesitated. What if she tied her ankles and he turned the ax on her? She’d be dead. She started to doubt her plan. Serial killer behavior was fairly predictable, but what if Lassiter was different? What if there was more to his fantasy? What if his fantasy included an ax?

  “Quit stalling,” he said, shaking the ax. “Don’t make me hit you. I want you conscious for this.”

  “Like my mother?”

  A twisted grin crawled across his face.

  Was that an indication that he intended to use a needle on her, not the ax? She thought so but wasn’t sure.

  She extended her right leg and wrapped the purple scarf around her ankle, tying a square knot and keeping it loose so as not to cut off the circulation.

  “Tighter,” he said.

  She pulled it apart and started again, tying it tighter.